


I'll Throw a Lasso Around the Mona Lisa

by reginalds



Series: Morally Bankrupt Crime Husbands Avenging Their Loved Ones [1]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, and then they fall in love, and they chase each other across Europe and steal things and kill people, art thief/assassin AU, where Nasir is an art thief and Agron is an assassin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginalds/pseuds/reginalds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts in Paris, because of course it fucking does. </p><p>(or, Agron is an assassin and Nasir is an art thief and he steals Agron's valuables and also his heart, and then they fall in love.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We'll Always Have Paris

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY. So a really long time ago (in the spring?) spuzz posted on tumblr this really great fic idea (spuzz.tumblr.com/post/49257752038/fic-ideas-part-whatever), and I read that and flailed and asked if it was okay if I wrote that idea out into a story. And then real life and various ridiculous fics about nude modelling and soap operas happened, and I am only now getting around to writing that fic. It has gone through some serious changes - mainly because the original idea called for pirates, and although I love pirates with all my heart, I was pretty sure that if I tried to write them I'd just end up with a bad Pirates of the Caribbean ripoff. 
> 
> So I've modernized it, and it's part gentlemen thieves à la Inception but without the dreamsharing, and it's part James Bond but without MI6. This change is largely an excuse to write Pana Hema Taylor into beautiful suits: don't judge me. But despite the changes, the plot is based almost entirely on spuzz's original idea, and this fic and I are sincerely indebted to her. This fic is going to be four chapters, and I have them plotted out already, so I'm hoping that there won't be too long a wait between them. 
> 
> Warnings for swearing, vague descriptions of violence, and gratuitous descriptions of places that I have never been (I've been doing some creative googling). The title is a 'It's a Wonderful Life' reference :)

It starts in Paris, because of course it fucking does. 

They run into each other, quite literally, in the middle of the Pont de l'Archevêché, and it’s so fucking poetic Duro nearly busts his gut laughing when Agron tells him the story. Agron had been walking back to where he was staying in the 4th arrondissement, having left his most recent mark bleeding out in a swanky apartment overlooking the Boulevard Saint Germain. 

His hands stink of disinfectant, and he still has his Walther tucked into the inside pocket of his suit when he stumbles into the slim, handsome man on the Pont de l'Archevêché, and falls in love. 

The man is wearing slim-fit charcoal trousers, a navy wool sweater and scuffed brogues. He has long hair that tumbles messily around his shoulders, and Agron wants to fist his hands in it and _pull_. He curls his hands around the man’s shoulder for a bit longer than necessary while setting him back on his feet, and is stumbling his way through an apology in French, when the man smirks and says: “Anglais?” 

“Is it that obvious?” Agron asks, and he’s still standing far too close to the man, keeping his hands on his shoulders as people stream around them, and the Seine drifts by beneath them. 

“Your accent is atrocious,” the man says. He hollows his cheeks around a cigarette Agron hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and Agron goes weak at the knees. In a manly sort of way.

Agron smiles down at him, and after a moment, the man smiles back. 

“Agron,” he says, sticking out a hand, and the man regards him for a minute before transferring the cigarette to his left hand and shaking Agron’s. His grip is firm, and Agron wants to undress him and never let him go. 

“Nasir,” the man says, taking another drag on his cigarette. 

“Nasir,” Agron says, rolling his name across his tongue and the man shoots him a look from beneath dark eyelashes. Agron grins back. “Can I buy you a drink, Nasir?” 

Nasir tongues his cigarette to the side of his mouth and shrugs. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

They walk off the bridge into the 4th arrondissement, and Agron follows Nasir past Notre Dame to a crowded little bar that Nasir knows that sells Brazilian food. They order bowls of feijoada and a round of caiparinhas and make small talk. 

Agron learns that Nasir was born and raised in New York City, and that he moved to Paris to go to school and never left. He studied art restoration and he works at an art gallery doing just that. Agron tells Nasir that he grew up in a suburb of Chicago, but currently lives and works at an investment firm in London. He tells Nasir that he’s in Paris on business and it’s nowhere near the whole truth, but from the way Nasir is smirking at him over the lip of his glass he thinks that maybe he’s being lied to as well. He’d press the issue, but Nasir’s hand has been on his thigh since they ordered their second round of drinks, and it’s really not that important, anyway. 

The November sun sets slowly over Paris, painting the streets gold, and Agron pays the bill and they walk on, meandering their way back to Agron’s hotel in an unspoken agreement. They get distracted on the way there by another bar, where they sit until the sun sinks further behind the horizon and the moon raises itself over Paris. They huddle together outside and Agron shares Nasir’s cigarettes and they drink red wine that stains their mouths red. 

When they leave, Nasir pushes Agron into an alleyway, presses him against a wall and yanks him down by his tie so that he can kiss him. Nasir kisses like it’s a fight and Agron leans into it and lets him win. He slides his hands beneath Nasir’s sweater and curls them around his hips, squeezing until Nasir pants into his mouth and pulls back.

“Tell me your hotel is nearby,” Nasir hisses, and Agron dips his head to bite at Nasir’s neck and then nods, pulling him breathlessly forward. They stumble through the heart of the Marais to Agron’s hotel, a little place tucked down an unassuming street. It’s pricey, classic French decadence tucked behind an unassuming façade, but beautiful. Agron loves Paris, and he has a hunch that Nasir’s skin will look golden against the rich, green brocade the bed in his room had been draped in. 

The concierge is indifferent to their rushed progress through the lobby, barely looking up as Nasir pushes Agron into the tiny, Parisian elevator and kisses him again while the doors close. Nasir’s teeth are sharp on Agron’s lip and he slides clever hands beneath Agron’s suit jacket. Agron reaches clumsily for his hands, while keeping one firmly clasped over Nasir’s hips and tenses when the palm of Nasir’s hand brushes over the barrel of his gun. 

Nasir smirks wickedly against his mouth. 

“An investment banker?” He murmurs, parroting Agron’s earlier words back at him, and Agron presses a hand against the bulge at the front of Nasir’s trousers. 

“You’re wearing a pair of Prada brogues,” he whispers into Nasir’s ear and takes great pleasure in making the smaller man shudder. “I’ve never met anyone working in art restoration who could afford Prada brogues.” 

Nasir pulls back, still grinning. “Maybe I’m just really fucking good at my job.” 

“And maybe I am too.” Agron counters, and pulls Nasir into his room. 

Nasir sprawls on the bed while Agron undresses, folding his suit jacket haphazardly and tucking the gun back into his suitcase. He kicks off his shoes when Agron stands in front of him, and drags his sweater over his head, revealing sharp hips and collarbones and what seems like acres of golden skin. He’s smirking when Agron manages to meet his eyes, and he unbuttons his tight charcoal trousers one-handed, and beckons to Agron with the other. 

Agron goes. 

\+ 

In the morning, Agron wakes up slowly, opening his eyes to a bright, Parisian morning. His body aches in a warm, and pleasant sort of way that lasts until he stretches out one arm and meets nothing but cold sheets. He sits up slowly, taking in the rumpled blankets and indented pillow that still smell faintly of the cologne Nasir had been wearing and swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. 

He makes his way to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth, and it’s only when he’s wandered back out into his empty hotel room to get dressed that he realizes that the door to his balcony is wide open, and Nasir, the beautiful bastard, has stolen fucking _everything_. 

His suitcase, which he had left closed and _locked_ in the closet, is sitting on the low sofa in the middle of his room, wide open and mostly empty. He reaches into it in a sort of daze, skimming his hands over the concealed pockets where he keeps weapons and currency. Both are empty. Agron unzips them anyway, just to be sure, but the stacks of euros, his fake passports, plane tickets, silencer, and handgun are all missing. So is the heavy pocket watch he had bought on a whim the last time he had been in London. And most of his clothes. And the bottle of Glenfiddich he had rolled into his socks. 

Agron runs his hands through his hair and takes several deep breaths before turning to the rest of the room. His suit from the night before is still on the chair he’d dumped it on, probably wrinkled beyond belief. His watch and wallet are both gone, but the cheap burner phone that he’d bought before flying to Paris is still there, probably because it’s a piece of shit. 

Agron sits down heavily on the bed – cold on both sides now – and scrubs his hands over his face. 

“Shit,” he says, “shit. Fuck.” He sighs and then levers himself up to get dressed. He puts his suit back on, shoves the tie into his mostly empty suitcase and goes downstairs with his phone to charm a cup of coffee out of the woman who runs the café on the corner.

When he’s caffeinated, and back in his room, he digs the phone out of his pocket, swallows his pride and calls Duro, who picks up with a curt: “What the fuck do you want.” 

“I need a favour.” 

Duro heaves a sigh. “I’m on a roof in Texas, waiting for some fucking oil tycoon, I don’t have time for your shit, Agron.” 

“I met a guy and he got the jump on me, and now I’m stranded in Paris,” Agron says all at once, like ripping off a band-aid. There’s a moment’s pause and then Duro has to hand the phone to Auctus he’s laughing so hard. It takes about five minutes for him to calm down, during which time Agron glares at the Eiffel Tower in the distance, and discovers that Nasir stole a pair of his shoes as well. He's somewhat impressed. 

“Okay, okay,” Duro says finally, hiccupping as he comes back on the line. “So you’re stranded in Paris. What the fuck do you want me to do about it?” 

“Wire me money so I can get the fuck out of here, asshole,” Agron snaps. 

“No can do brother,” Duro says, and Agron is going to _strangle_ him the next time he sees him. “We’re going to need to make a pretty speedy exit once we’re done here. We’re going to ground for a couple weeks, no radio contact, nothing.” 

“I’m going to strangle you,” Agron tells him, and he can hear Duro shrug against the phone. Someone speaks quietly in the background and Duro hums into the receiver. 

“I’ve gotta go; our mark just walked out of his meeting. Auctus says you should call Pietros.” 

Agron growls, and Duro hangs up on him.

Agron spends an hour gritting his teeth and cursing younger brothers and beautiful thieving bastards who are great in bed, and then he calls Pietros. 

In less than an hour, Pietros sends him the address of a café that they can meet at, and when he turns up he draws Agron into a bear hug and hands over a briefcase that contains identification, plane tickets, credit cards, and a Beretta. 

“Pietros,” Agron says, snapping the case shut and tucking it under the small table they’ve settled at. “If Barca wouldn’t punch all my teeth out, I would kiss you right now.” 

Pietros smiles brightly at him, but dims a little at the mention of Barca’s name. 

“Where is Barca, anyway?” Agron asks, “You two are usually joined at the hip.” 

“He’s in Warsaw,” Pietros says, and pouts. “He’ll be back in a week, but that's practically forever. I don’t sleep that well when he’s not there.” 

“What is Barca doing in Warsaw?” Agron asks, pushing Pietros’ éclair closer towards him and reaching for his latte. 

“I’d tell you,” Pietros says with a small smile, “but then I’d have to kill you.” 

Agron shrugs. “That’s fair.” 

Pietros takes an indecently large bite of his éclair and then leans towards Agron with mischief in his eyes. “So. Tell me about the guy who stole all your shit.” 

Agron groans and covers his face with his hands. “He was beautiful,” he says, “we ran into each other on the Pont de l'Archevêché, and then he spent the night at my hotel, and when I woke up he and all my valuables were gone.” 

Pietros laughs, a loud and bright sound that makes the people sitting in the tables near theirs look their way. “Was it worth it?” Pietros asks, after a minute of silence, his eyes shining.

Agron grins at him. “Oh, absolutely."


	2. From Tokyo to London, With Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agron is in Stockholm when Pietros calls him, shadowing a mark through a series of boutiques in Östermalm. Nobody is supposed to have the number of the phone that’s currently vibrating in his pocket, but Pietros has never really been one to play by the rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, massive hugs and thank you's to everyone who's commented/read/kudos'd this fic! I love all of you, and you guys are the reason why I love writing fics in the Spartacus fandom! Y'all are so damn excellent. 
> 
> Secondly, I DID A LOT OF GOOGLING WHILE WRITING THIS CHAPTER. Like, a really ridiculous amount, because I have never actually been to most of the places mentioned in this chapter, but I would like to. This is more or less a list of the places I would love to visit. Also, the chapter title is an outrageous butchering of the name of a Bond film and I'm sorry about that, I'm rubbish at naming things. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter - it's been a fun ride.

Agron is in Stockholm when Pietros calls him, shadowing a mark through a series of boutiques in Östermalm. Nobody is supposed to have the number of the phone that’s currently vibrating in his pocket, but Pietros has never really been one to play by the rules. 

“Hej hej,” he says into the phone, following his mark back out into the street, and turning up the collar of his wool coat with one hand against the brittle wind. 

“That guy from Paris,” Pietros says without preamble. “His name was Nasir, right?” 

Agron stumbles over a loose cobblestone, has a momentary (and delicious) flashback to smooth thighs, and snaps: “What?” into the phone. 

Pietros continues, unruffled. “Was his name Nasir Hashemi?” 

Agron splutters. “We didn’t get around to exchanging last names,” he manages, and he can hear Pietros smirking through the phone. 

“Not too tall,” Pietros says, undaunted, “slim, long hair, brown eyes, nice ass?” 

“Why the fuck are you asking me this?” Agron hisses, ducking haphazardly through a crowd to catch up with his mark. 

“Because someone just stole a Cézanne from the Tate Modern in London,” Pietros says calmly and Agron huffs.

“And?” 

“God, you’re thick,” Pietros sighs. “And? Agron, it was _him_. Your one night stand with the nice ass and the sticky fingers is named Nasir Hashemi, and he’s an art thief. He’s wanted in half a dozen countries and there’s an incredibly grainy photograph of him plastered all over the BBC right now, because he stole a _fucking Cézanne_.” 

Agron comes to a stop in the middle of the street, and three Swedish people walk straight into him. “… He’s in London?” 

Pietros sighs explosively across the receiver and Agron winces and keeps walking. He has a job to do: now is really not the time to be thinking of how it’s only a quick flight to London from Stockholm.

“Is that really the only thing you retained from what I just told you?” Pietros asks. “And he’s not going to be in London much longer. A _Cézanne_ , Agron. He’s going to need to lay low for a while.” 

“Lay low where?” 

There’s a pause and Agron follows his mark into the lobby of a swanky hotel and takes a seat on one of the couches, while his mark heads for the elevators. 

“You’re gona to owe me,” Pietros says, finally, but Agron can hear the sound of fingers tapping across a keyboard in the background of the phone call. Pietros has always been a sucker for a love story. 

“Anything you want,” Agron promises, loosening his tie with deft fingers. 

“I want a crate of kanelbulle,” Pietros says immediately. “ _Fresh_ kanelbulle.” 

“Done.” 

“I’ll text you when I know more,” Pietros says, and then. “There are cameras in the stairwells of that hotel, just FYI.” 

“Noted,” Agron says, filing the information away for later, and recalibrating his getaway plans. He stopped questioning how Pietros knows what he knows a long time ago. “Thanks.” 

\+ 

The job is done before midnight that night, and Agron cleans the scene quickly and efficiently, and then walks straight out of the hotel into a cold midnight in Stockholm. His own hotel is located in Södermalm, and he walks there, willing the night air to cleanse his mind of the thoughts of bright eyes and thin lips. He has no idea what he’d even say to Nasir if he saw him again. Or if Nasir has even the remotest desire to see him. The whole leaving while Agron was asleep and stealing everything of value isn’t the best sign, but Agron has always been an optimist. 

Two days later, he’s tramping aimlessly through Gamla Stan when he gets a text from Pietros that says simply: _Tokyo_. He’s speedwalking back in the direction of his hotel when he remembers that there are something like eight million people in Tokyo, and texts furiously: _tokyo is a VERY LARGE CITY. care to narrow it down?_

He’s back in his hotel, throwing things into his suitcase when Pietros texts him back. _Shibuya._

_STILL NOT HELPFUL_

_god, you’re the worst 007 ever._ Pietros texts. _you are the George lazenby of james bond’s._

_fuck you_ Agron types while scrambling for the charger for his phone. _I’m at least roger moore._

_in your dreams ___Pietros responds, and then: _try omotesando_.

Tokyo is really fucking crowded. Agron had been there once before, on a job, but the sheer bustle and noise is completely overwhelming. Shibuya is so packed with people that he knows that finding Nasir is just not going to happen. He puts out feelers though, as best he can, meets with his underworld contacts over sushi and the occasional cup of coffee, and asks if any of them have seen the art thief. None of them have, which means that Nasir is good at hiding when he wants to be, or that Pietros’ intel is wrong. And Pietros is never wrong. 

Agron spends two weeks wandering Shibuya, his heart jumping every time he sees a man with shoulder-length hair, before he gets a text from Pietros that says: _belgium. brussels. musee rene magritte._

So he flies to Belgium, because he’s never been, and he’s a big fan of chocolate and waffles. Brussels is beautiful, and he spends most of his time wandering through various art museums. He’s in the Museé Rene Magritte, just like Pietros said when he sees him out of the corner of his eye: a flash of brown hair and a cream-coloured angora sweater but by the time Agron makes it out of the museum, he's nowhere to be seen. 

Pietros’ next text says _barcelona, las ramblas_ , and Agron buys a train ticket and goes to Barcelona. 

Barcelona is bright and warm, and Agron eats paella and drinks sangria and walks the length of La Rambla over and over again, examining the human statues and keeping an eye out for Nasir. 

He’s been chasing Nasir for over a month now, thanks to Pietros’ help, and it’s probably verging on creepy. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to say when he finally catches up to Nasir – or if he will ever catch up to Nasir, because _damn_ , when that man doesn’t want to be found, he can’t be found. Pietros is the best, and even he is working off of nothing more than educated guesses and grainy CCTV footage. 

He’s been in Barcelona for six days, working on his tan, and eating dulce de leche doughnuts from Lukumas when Pietros texts him in the middle of the night. 

_traced him back to London_ , the text reads. _trail goes cold at Paddington station, sorry._

Agron thanks him and arranges for a half dozen fresh doughnuts to be delivered to Barca and Pietros’ apartment in Paris before booking himself a plane ticket. 

\+ 

Agron loves London, loves the rain and the people and the culture. He’s called it home for most of the past decade, and he keeps an apartment in Notting Hill for when he’s not gallivanting around the world chasing pretty boys who steal priceless works of art. 

The first thing he does when he gets back to London is take a cab to his flat, which is covered in a thin layer of dust, and smells musty. He throws the windows wide and takes the hottest shower he can stand, before lying down in his own bed and sleeping for eighteen hours. When he wakes, refreshed, he dresses and goes to buy himself a latte from his favourite café. 

Refreshed, and happy to be home, he takes a cab to Paddington Station and stands still in the middle of the chaos, sipping a paper cup of milky tea and watching the people who walk by. If Nasir was here when Pietros texted him that was already two days ago, and he could have gotten on a train and gotten the hell out of dodge, but Agron’s instincts tell him that Nasir’s still in London. It’s like there’s an edge to everything that there wasn’t before – London feels sharper, like a knife to the throat, and Agron revels in it. 

And maybe it’s because he’s been living out of suitcases in hotels across Europe for the past month or so, chasing a man who seems to be made largely out of Agron’s memories and smoke, but the air feels charged, and it feels like it had in Paris, when they first ran into each other on that bridge. 

And it really shouldn’t surprise him when he’s walking home later that night and familiar hands shove him against a wall and press a blade against his throat, but he drops his shopping all over the alleyway anyway. 

Nasir’s hair is pulled straight back, away from his face, and his cheeks look more hollowed than they had in Paris. Agron’s hands twitch at his side, eager to scoop Nasir back into them, and Nasir presses the blade against his throat and stares Agron down. He’s terrifying, and Agron is painfully turned on. 

“How long have you been following me for?” Nasir hisses, and Agron swallows carefully. 

“Since Tokyo,” he says quietly. “Shibuya.” 

Nasir’s eyes darken, and he readjusts his hold on the hilt of his knife. Agron tenses. He’s about sixty-five percent sure Nasir isn’t actually going to stab him, but it’s always good to be prepared. 

“ _Why?_ ” Nasir spits. “Why have you been following me?” 

Agron opens his mouth, and then closes it, because what he’s about to say makes him sound like a pretty huge idiot. Nasir raises an eyebrow, and Agron looks down, away from his glittering eyes. 

“Why did you leave in Paris?” He says, instead of what he’d been about to say, which is: ‘I’ve been following you because I’ve got a really embarrassing crush on you, and I’d really like to take you on a date.’ 

That makes Nasir pause, and he stares at Agron for a long moment before taking the knife away from his neck and stepping back. 

“I don’t do awkward breakfasts after one-night stands,” he says, and something twists in Agron’s chest. His heart, probably. 

“It didn’t have to be a one-night stand,” he mutters. 

Nasir cocks an eyebrow at him, and says, incredulously: “Did you follow me halfway across the world because you wanted to ask me out to dinner?” 

“No,” Agron says balefully, and Nasir smiles, a real smile this time, and it makes Agron’s heart jump in his chest again. 

“I’m flattered,” Nasir says, smirking, and Agron can’t decide whether or not he wants to kiss him or go into his flat and die of embarrassment. 

“Flattered enough to let me take you to dinner?” Agron asks, because false bravado has always been his defense mechanism. 

Nasir shakes his head, but he steps close to Agron, who tenses for another knife to the throat until Nasir winds his fingers around Agron’s neck and kisses him instead, and he’s warm and tastes faintly of cigarettes and oranges, and he pulls away far too quickly. Agron blinks, dazed, and by the time he’s collected himself enough to try to follow Nasir, the other man has disappeared into the shadows at the end of the alley. 


	3. Let the Sky Fall, When It Crumbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agron spends November trying to forget. 
> 
> Nasir has made it more than clear that, while enjoyable, their fling in Paris was just that: a fling. The knife to his neck in an alleyway made that abundantly clear. 
> 
> “You’d think that the whole stealing-all-your-shit in Paris would have made that clear,” Duro says, when Agron shares his thoughts on the Nasir situation. Agron flicks cocktail olives at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter has taken so long, but I hope it's worth the wait. And thank you all for waiting, reading, kudos-ing, etc, etc. I appreciate all of it, I really, really do, even if I'm consistently bad at responding. 
> 
> This chapter is arcing up towards the conclusion. There's a bit of blood, guns, and action here (although just a bit, and really, if you watch Spartacus, this is nothing), so a quick warning for that.

Agron spends November trying to forget. 

Nasir has made it more than clear that, while enjoyable, their fling in Paris was just that: a fling. The knife to his neck in an alleyway made that abundantly clear. 

“You’d think that the whole stealing-all-your-shit in Paris would have made that clear,” Duro says, when Agron shares his thoughts on the Nasir situation. Agron flicks cocktail olives at him. 

Duro, back from deep cover and crashing on Agron’s couch indefinitely, alternates between making fun of his older brother and acting as his wingman. They go out one Saturday to watch the rugby, and Agron gets drunk on cider and nearly takes an attractive brunet home. They’re outside, snogging under the street lights and trying to catch a taxi, when Agron looks down, realizes that he’s clinging to a drunk Nasir look-alike and that’s not really fair to anyone involved.

He hails a taxi for the guy and pays for it, makes his excuses, and is punched in the face for his troubles. 

He wakes up the next morning with a hangover and a spectacular black eye and Duro laughs at him for half an hour straight. 

“It’s really not your year, is it?” Duro gasps, finally, and Agron ignores him in favour of drinking all the coffee in the apartment. 

It’s business as usual after that, more or less. Duro stops pushing slim brown-haired men at him when they go out, and doesn’t make too many jokes about Agron being celibate. 

Agron takes a job in Dublin, and then one in Morocco. He comes back to London from Morocco with a tan, craving strong tea and rainy days, which London delights in providing him with. He goes out with Duro and comes home alone, and he tells himself that he’s getting over Nasir. He has, at least, stopped jumping every times someone who looks remotely like Nasir crosses his path. 

He’s doing just fine, and then Pietros calls him. 

It’s late, which means that it’s either an emergency, or Pietros is drunk. Pietros drunk dials Agron once or twice a month, leaves him long rambling messages, or talks at him for hours about Barca and Paris, but tonight, his voice is clipped and sharp. Agron is awake and reaching for the knife under his pillow before he can think about it. 

“You still mooning over that art thief?” Pietros asks, and Agron would hang up on him, but Pietros isn't teasing. Agron does a quick check of his surroundings and eases his bedroom door open to verify that Duro is still asleep on the couch, alive and safe, if snoring. 

“Yes?” Agron returns to his room and starts to get dressed with only one hand, keeping a firm grip on the hilt of his knife. 

“Good,” Pietros says, and his voice softens. “Because I think he’s in trouble. He tried to pull a fast one on these big deal, fucking terrifying art dealers. Bad people – sooner kill you than look at you, you know?” 

Agron does know, and his insides turn cold at the thought. He reaches for his shoes, his gun, and his jacket, moving efficiently in the dark, focused on getting dressed so he can get out and find Nasir. 

“Where is he?” 

“They pulled him out of his apartment two days ago. They’ve got him in a warehouse in Birmingham.” 

“Two days?!” Agron hisses, and Pietros hums down the line. 

“I only just heard about it, I’m sorry. I’m texting you the address now.” Agron’s phone beeps against his ear, and thank god for Pietros. 

“Cheers, Q,” he says, scrawling a note on a post-it and sticking it to Duro’s forehead, before booking it out of the door, and taking the stairs down to the street at a run. 

“Anytime, Moneypenny,” Pietros murmurs in his ear, and then: “Good luck.” 

Agron hangs up and slides his phone into his pocket. The trains aren’t running this late at night, and he thinks he might lose his fucking mind if he had to sit patiently on a train while it made it’s way to Birmingham. He slips down his street instead, pulls a wire out of his pocket and checks that the street is empty before breaking into the car. He slides inside and hotwires it, sighing in relief when it purrs to life beneath him. It’s a nice car, slim and black, and he pulls out of the spot it had been parked in and guns it down the quiet London streets. 

It’s still hours away from dawn, and the centre of London is mercifully quiet. He drives in silence, only flicking the radio on when the thoughts in his head become too loud. These bastards have had Nasir for nearly two full days. The address that Pietros sent him is for some sketchy warehouse and who is to say they didn’t just kill Nasir, dump his body and get the hell out of dodge? It’s been two days. _Two days._

Agron tightens his fingers on the steering wheel, turns the radio louder to drown out the dread in his stomach, and follows the signs leading out of London. 

Dawn is just breaking on the horizon when he makes it to Birmingham. He calls up the GPS on his phone and braces it on the dashboard, following the directions Pietros had provided him with, and feeling more and more unprepared for whatever lies ahead. It’s possible that he had been too hasty. That he should have waited for Duro, and called some friends in London to help him. He has no plan, besides getting in, saving Nasir and getting out. Alive, hopefully.

He parks on a street a few streets away from the warehouse. It’s a sketchy neighbourhood: even the buildings look unfriendly, but it’s still early, and the streets are empty. Agron turns off the car, checks his gun, and steps out into the cool morning. 

He has no fucking idea what he’s doing. He’s just one man, with one gun, and a thing for unruly art thieves. There is a very good possibility that he’s going to get killed. There is also a very good possibility that if he survives this and Nasir survives this, Nasir is just going to run away again and go back to being beautiful and distant and living a life of thievery. Or maybe _he’ll_ shoot Agron. 

Agron blinks hard, shakes his head to clear it, and starts walking towards the warehouse. 

It’s nondescript, and there’s nothing but silence inside. Agron slides his gun out of his pocket, and walks carefully around the building, looking for an entrance. There’s a door in the back, firmly locked, but the lock is rusting and Agron gives it one hard kick and manages to break it. He lets himself in, and steps quietly. 

It’s very, very quiet inside, and it doesn’t take him long to find Nasir. There’s a space in the middle of the warehouse, cleared of all the boxes and other sorts of detritus, and two men with thick arms and leather jackets. It’s so cliché that Agron would laugh if Nasir wasn’t tied to a chair a handful of meters away from where the thugs are drinking coffee. He’s tied with thick rope, that seems to be the only thing keeping him upright. He’s listing dangerously to one side, his chin to his chest, and his bare feet are bloodied. Agron takes a few, silent steps closer, and he can see that there’s blood on Nasir’s face, too, matting his long hair and dripping onto the thin shirt he’s wearing. 

Agron is suddenly, and entirely furious. He lets out one sharp breath through his nostrils and the sound echoes in the empty space. The thugs with the coffee freeze and one of them reaches for the gun tucked into his waistband. 

Agron steps out from behind the racks of shipping containers he’s standing behind, a manic smile stretching across his face. He fires, clipping the first guard in the shoulder and ducking back behind the shipping containers when the second guard draws his own gun with a shout. 

He runs, drawing their fire, ducking behind containers and firing at them whenever he gets a clear shot, anything to keep their bullets and their fists away from Nasir. He gets the first thug with a lucky shot, straight to the thigh, and the man goes down and stays down. The second man fires and the bullet tears into the wall inches away from Agron’s shoulder. He ducks and rolls away, firing blindly in the man’s direction, when there’s a scream of pain, and a thud. 

It’s so sudden that Agron looks down, half expecting that he’s the one who cried out, but there’s no blood on him. He raises his gun and steps forward, back into the emptied space in the middle of the warehouse. The second man is sprawled on the concrete floor, down for the count, the ropes that were binding Nasir to the chair are pooled loosely on the ground, and Nasir is standing unsteadily above the second thug, holding what looks like a jagged piece of coat hanger. 

He raises his makeshift weapon when Agron steps out into the clearing, lowering his gun in disbelief. Something like amazement flickers over Nasir’s face, beneath the bruises and the blood, and Agron’s heart aches. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Nasir asks, clutching the twisted piece of wire despite the fact that it looks like he’s having trouble remaining upright. 

Agron flicks the safety on his gun. “I was… I’m here to rescue you.” 

“Why?” 

“My friend called me, and told me that you were in trouble. And I couldn’t… I had to…” 

Nasir looks like he can’t believe that Agron is real. “So, what, you stole a car and broke into this warehouse and shot a man?” 

Agron hesitates and Nasir’s eyebrows climb into his matted hair. “Fucking hell,” he mutters. The piece of wire in his hand clatters loudly on to the cement floor. “I owe you one.” 

Agron tucks his gun back into his holster and they look at each other for a long minute that stretches awkwardly between them. Nasir is listing to the side again, but he manages a cocky smirk, and says: “So, you got in here, did you have a plan for getting out?” 

And Agron would smile at the Star Wars reference, but Nasir’s knees buckle and he has to rush forward to catch him. Nasir’s head lolls against his shoulder just as his phone begins to ring, and he props Nasir up while sliding it out of his pocket. 

“BIRMINGHAM?!” Duro shouts in his ear as soon as he gets it open, and Nasir groans. He’s turned a chalky shade of pale, and Agron heaves him up, against his shoulder while Duro shouts at him. 

“You fucking _idiot_ , you could at least have woken me up, I could have provided backup instead of acting as the getaway driver, and – ”

“Getaway driver?” Agron repeats, heaving the warehouse door open and making sure that Nasir’s head doesn’t hit it as he gets them both out. 

“Yeah, I stole a fucking car to come and pick up your stupid ass from Birmingham and drag you back to London where we will form a plan and then we can go storm the fucking warehouse…” 

“How far away are you?” Agron asks, “I’ve already done it, I got him, but he’s bleeding pretty badly, and he passed out a little while ago.” 

There’s a moment of silence before Duro yells: “What?! Jesus fucking Christ, please don’t tell me you stormed a fucking warehouse on your own, Agron, I swear to god…” 

“There were only two guards,” Agron mutters, “and Nasir took out one of them. It’s fine.” 

“It’s not FINE, they could have KILLED YOU,” Duro bellows and Nasir stirs against Agron’s shoulder. 

“But they didn’t, and I need you to come pick me up, because I need to get the fuck out of here and try to bandage his head wound, okay?” 

“Head wound,” Duro mutters. “It’s not even seven yet, fucking hell.” 

“How far away are you? I just texted you the address.” 

Duro swears colourfully, fumbles with his phone and then sighs. “Give me fifteen minutes. Get the fuck away from that warehouse and don’t get shot.” 

“Yes, sir,” Duro swears at him again and Agron closes his phone and sets Nasir down. The smaller man sways and grabs Agron’s shoulder. Agron winds an arm around Nasir to keep him upright. 

“Can you walk? We should get out of here.” Nasir grunts at him and takes a couple long minutes to just breathe. Agron fits his hands around his ribs and hopes that he hasn’t been kicked hard enough that he’s bleeding somewhere where they can’t see it. 

When Nasir moves forward, Agron moves with him, hurrying them down the street as quickly as they can. The city is stirring, and walking away from a warehouse with torn clothes and bloodied faces is probably the most conspicuous things that they could have done. 

Duro comes screeching around the corner in an unfamiliar car about twenty minutes later, just as Nasir is slowing down to a crawl, and Agron is starting to get agitated, checking over his shoulder every other minute for the men he’s sure are following them. 

Nasir’s guard goes back up when the car screams to a halt in front of him, his hands clench into fists despite the fact that he’s practically dead on his feet, and Agron would find it endearing if Nasir weren’t still bleeding from his face. 

“It’s okay,” he says, “it’s my brother.” 

Duro gets out and helps Nasir into the backseat, Agron following him in. There are two sawed off shot guns thrown haphazardly on the seats in the back, along with a messy selection of lockpicks and a grappling hook, of all things. 

Duro pulls away from the curb and shrugs as Agron tosses the arsenal back into the front so he can try and keep Nasir upright. “I didn’t know if you’d have it under control.” 

“You two,” Nasir says quietly, from against Agron’s chest. “You two are so fucking weird.”


	4. The Trevi Fountain is Overrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nasir looks at him, finally, and his hand opens and closes nervously in Agron’s. “I’m really fucking bad at this,” he says, biting his lips.
> 
> “You know, I noticed that the first time we slept together and you stole all my shit,” Agron says, and Nasir cracks a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So, first and most importantly: I LOVE ALL OF YOU. Really and truly. For reading and commenting, etc, etc. I have read all the comments, and they are inspiring and wonderful and make me smile and love this fandom more and more. I haven't been in a great place in my head lately, and I've been having a hard time getting my shit together in the real world. I've also been struggling with this story, because I don't know what possessed me to write it in chapter form. I've had to stop myself from deleting everything and editing it all and then reposting when it's shiny and new and feels like a better story, but I didn't want to do that to you guys. I may go back and stealthily edit the earlier chapters, however, but first, how about a happy ending? This last chapter almost doubles the word count of the entire story, and I very much hope you like it. <3

They ditch the car when they get back to London, and Agron takes off his shirt and shoes and puts them on Nasir to conceal the bleeding as much as possible. A wide-eyed housewife watches them carry Nasir up into Agron’s apartment, but she seems more fixated on Agron’s bare chest then the way Nasir is bleeding through the button-up they’d forced him into, so he figures they’re in the clear. 

They manage to maneuver Nasir into the claw-footed bathtub Agron had scored at an auction a couple of years ago, and Duro fetches bandages and iodine and the rest of the first aid kit while Agron runs the water, and starts un-buttoning the shirt he had lent Nasir. He’s peeling the fabric away from Nasir’s shoulders when Nasir catches his wrist and twists. Agron swears, loudly, and Nasir blinks at him. His eyes are unfocused and there is blood matting his hair to his forehead but his hands on Agron's wrist are steady. 

“I’m still armed,” he croaks, letting his eyes slide closed. “Don’t try anything.” 

“You are the stubbornest son of a bitch my brother has ever brought home,” Duro says from over Agron’s shoulder, and when Agron moves to elbow him in the groin, he ducks out of the way. 

“You’re wearing pyjamas, anyway,” Duro says from the doorway while Agron leans over the side of the tub to adjust the temperature of the water, and pull the shoes off Nasir’s feet. “Where are you hiding weapons?” 

Nasir, bloodied and gorgeous, and half-collapsed in Agron’s bathtub, smirks at them both and reaches a shaky hand up to pull a slim blade from his tangled hair. 

“They never think to check the hair,” he says, and lets the blade fall onto the tiles in the bathroom with a little clinking sound. Duro whistles and leans into the bathroom far enough to clap Agron on the shoulder. 

“I’ll leave you and your weapons kink alone then, shall I?” 

Agron throws a roll of bandages at him and shouts: “Bring us coffee!” 

Duro just flips him off over his shoulder, and keeps walking. 

In the bathtub, Nasir has his eyes closed again, and the water swirling around his legs is a rusty red. Moving slowly, so he doesn’t get shanked, Agron reaches for a cloth and wets it. He cleans Nasir’s wounds carefully, hyper aware of the warm skin beneath his hands. He cleans the blood from Nasir’s chest and gravel and dirt from the cuts on his feet. There are bruises blooming on Nasir’s hips and back that he ghosts the cloth over and pretends he doesn’t notice when Nasir hisses and jerks away from the pain. 

He unhooks the shower head from the wall and runs it over his fingers to test the temperature, before pressing gently at the back of Nasir’s neck so he doesn’t get water in his eyes. Nasir, warm and pliable and mostly clean, leans forward agreeably and sighs quietly when Agron lets the water run over the crown of his head, and through his hair. It takes a while for the water to run clear, to clear the mud and plaster and blood out of Nasir’s hair, but Agron moves patiently, using his fingers to comb Nasir’s hair clean. He’s done this before, for Duro, when he was young and stupid and constantly getting himself into fights that he couldn’t finish. 

When he’s done, he switches the water off and hands Nasir a towel. 

“I should bandage that cut on your shoulder,” he says, quietly, holding out his hands for Nasir to use to extricate himself from the bathtub. Nasir looks at his hands warily, but holds onto them when his knees buckle when he stands. His grip is shaky, but still strong. 

“I can do it myself,” Nasir says, stiffer and far less pliable now that he’s out of the bathtub and standing (mostly) on his own. 

“You’re dead on your feet,” Agron says, reaching for the bandages that Duro left in the bathroom sink. “And if you try to bandage your own shoulder you’ll only stretch the wound wider and end up with an infection.” 

“That’s never happened before,” Nasir says, removing his hands from Agron’s and swaying slightly on his feet, but remaining upright. Agron rolls his eyes. 

“Will you please just let me help you?” 

Nasir’s shoulders go uncomfortably stiff at that, and he looks away. “I can’t afford to owe anyone any favours,” he says, quietly. 

Agron shakes his head forcefully and puts the bandages back in the sink, reaching for Nasir, and curling his hands up when the smaller man jerks away. 

“I’m not doing this so you’ll lend me your favourite rocket launcher when I need to take out a small European country,” Agron says, pushing his hands into his hair in exasperation. “You don’t have to pay me back, except maybe by not stealing all of my shit in the morning. Or like, not putting a knife to my throat. Again. I’m doing this because I heard you were in trouble, and you don’t deserve to be shot in a warehouse in Birmingham by some asshole gangster.”

Nasir raises an eyebrow at him, but he’s smiling, a little bit, and listing slightly to the side again. Agron reaches over and steadies him with two big hands on slim shoulders, and Nasir lets him. 

“As far as romantic declarations go,” Nasir says, later, when he’s sat on the closed toilet seat, and letting Agron dab iodine against the cut on his head, “that was one of the strangest I’ve ever had. You are one of the strangest I’ve ever had. People generally lose interest when they find out that I’ve stolen their passport and their shoes.” 

“My brother and I are made of stubborn stock,” Agron says, pressing butterfly closures against the cut on Nasir’s head and stepping back to study his handiwork. “My father chased our mother across two continents before she agreed to marry him.” 

Nasir laughs quietly, running clever fingers over the closures on his head and the bandage on his shoulder. “It runs in the family, then,” he says. “The chasing.” 

“We know what we like,” Agron says, shrugging. “And we don’t let distance deter us.” 

“I can see that,” Nasir says. “Distance, or a knife to the throat, nothing stops you.” 

He’s smirking, and Agron tucks the bandages and the iodine back beneath the bathroom sink and points at him. “I walked all across Shibuya for you,” he says, and Nasir shrugs, still smiling. 

“I never asked you to fly to Tokyo for me.” 

“Jesus Christ, you two make me sick.” Duro sticks his head into the bathroom, scowling. “Is there blood in the bathtub? I’d really like to take a shower without getting someone else’s blood on me.” 

Agron stretches out a hand to help Nasir up, and they move out of the small bathroom. Duro leers at him behind Nasir’s back as they go, and Agron does his best to ignore him. He leads Nasir into his bedroom, and helps him in to the bed, refraining from tucking him in only because Duro would never let him live it down. 

“You know where the bathroom is,” Agron says. “I’ll be on the couch if you need anything, just shout.” 

Nasir nods, his fingers skimming across the bedspread and the sheets, and his eyes taking in the crowded bookshelf, the comic books on the floor, the dart board and the post cards tacked to the wall of Agron’s room. Agron waits for another moment, and then leaves him to it, closing the door softly, and joining Duro with a couple of beers on the couch. 

“So I can see why you like him,” Duro says, quietly, when their beers are half gone. “He’s a stubborn little shit, just like you.” 

Agron shoves at him half-heartedly, and Duro laughs loudly, and then covers his mouth, glancing at Agron’s closed bedroom door. 

“He’s good at what he does,” Agron says, and Duro nods, taking a long swig of his beer and letting his head drop back on the couch.

“I liked the part where he hid a knife in his hair,” he says, “anyone with knives in their hair gets my blessing.” 

Agron laughs this time, and gets up to get them both another beer. 

\+ 

Nasir sleeps for fourteen hours straight. Agron sleeps on the couch, half-collapsed on top of Duro, who elbows him in the kidneys and refuses to make room for him. Every few hours, he gets up to check on Nasir, to make sure he’s still there, and that he hasn’t climbed out of the window with Agron’s laptop and wallet. 

When he does finally wake up, it’s eight o’clock the next morning, and Agron is making coffee and scrambled eggs in their kitchen and singing along to some terrible pop song on the radio. He doesn’t even notice that Nasir is watching him until he steps into the kitchen and one of the floorboards creaks beneath his bare feet. Agron does not shriek and grab for a knife, but it’s a close thing. 

Nasir, wearing one of Agron’s old t-shirts, and a pair of Duro’s jogging bottoms, rolled up twice, smiles sleepily at him, and it’s like the sun has risen all over again. 

“Was that Jessie J?” He asks, jerking his head at the radio and Agron flushes and turns back to the eggs before they burn.

“Shut up,” he mutters. “Coffee or tea?” 

“Coffee,” Nasir says, and then: “and some eggs, if there’s enough?” Agron nods, already reaching into the refrigerator for the rest of the eggs and cheese. He puts another couple of slices of bread in the toaster as well, and pushes gently against Nasir’s back until he sits down at their kitchen table. When the coffee has brewed he pours a mug-full for Nasir and sets out cream and the chipped sugar bowl, before turning back to the scrambled eggs with his own coffee. 

“How’s the shoulder?” He asks, picking up the spatula to make sure the cheese melts evenly into the scrambled eggs. “And the head?” 

“Sore,” Nasir says, and when Agron sneaks a glance at him from over his shoulder, he’s got his face buried in the coffee mug. 

“You can stay here for as long as you’d like,” Agron says, grabbing the toast when it pops up and buttering it quickly. “As long as you need.” 

He has the toast on plates and the eggs salted and peppered and spooned onto the plates beside the toast before Nasir speaks again. He says thank you, very, very quietly, and more to the coffee than to Agron, but it’s there, and Agron beams soppily at him and hands him the larger portion of eggs and toast. 

They eat in silence, Agron watching every move Nasir makes for any signs of pain, and Nasir with single-minded focus. He digs into the eggs and toast with gusto, and finishes before Agron’s eaten half of his. He puts his fork down sheepishly when Agron looks at his empty plate, but Agron just grins and stands up, opening the fridge to dig out the rest of the eggs, and put more bread into the toaster. 

“It’s really good,” Nasir says when he turns the hob back on and rescues the pan from the sink. “I never imagined you as a cook.” 

Agron turns around at that. “What did you imagine me as?” 

Nasir actually flushes, and Agron nearly burns his hand on the stove at the sight. “I just never thought that a gun-for-hire would spend his mornings making scrambled eggs and filling in the crossword puzzle.” 

Agron laughs, and cracks three more eggs into the pan, then reaches into the fridge for the cheese. 

When they’re done with breakfast, Agron changes the bandage on Nasir’s shoulder and finds him a new shirt and steals a pair of fresh joggers from the luggage Duro’s left in the corner of his living room, and shows him how to use the shower. He tidies aimlessly while Nasir is in the shower, folds Duro’s clothes for him and straightens the blankets on the couch before sending Pietros a panicked text. 

_he’s wounded and staying in my flat and I just made him two plates of scrambled eggs for breakfast. unsure of how to proceed?_

Less than a minute later, Pietros sends him a text full of overexcited keysmashing, and then: _SEDUCE HIM_ , which is quickly followed up with _AND THEN TELL ME EVERYTHING_. And then: _take him to the tower of london! you can bond over workplace violence and make out in all the dark corners!_.

Agron turns his phone off after that. 

They don’t go to the Tower of London, because when Nasir gets out of the shower he looks exhausted again, and Agron gets him a cup of water and closes the door when Nasir falls asleep in his bed again. He’s turning into his mother. 

Duro shows up later that afternoon with Auctus on his arm and the news that he’s found a flat in London to stay at until they pick up another job. He collects his shit and hugs Agron, and then makes a number of increasingly lewd hand gestures until Agron is forced to shut the door in his face.

In the evening, he orders a takeaway from his favourite Thai place, and is just sitting down in front of his curry and pad thai when the door to his room opens up and Nasir pads out. He’s sleep-mussed and if Agron didn’t know that he stole things and stabbed people who got in his way for a living, he’d call him adorable. 

“Hungry?” Agron asks, lifting his carton of pad thai. “I ordered enough for small army.” 

Nasir smiles, unguarded and tousled, and Agron’s heart swells a bit in his chest. He puts his chopsticks down to massage at it, and shifts backwards so that Nasir can fit on the couch along with him. 

“I feel nearly human again,” Nasir tells him, reaching carefully for a container of tom kha gai. Agron pushes the fried rice and half of the pad thai at him surreptitiously, and Nasir smiles at him. 

“I haven’t felt so rested in years,” Nasir tells him, fixing his eyes on the television, where Agron had started watching Dune a little while ago, for lack of anything better to do. 

“That’s the only reason they got the drop on me,” he continues after a minute, through a mouthful of curry, and Agron turns to look at him over the container of fried rice he’s eating. “I’m better than that, usually.” Nasir puts his curry down and swipes the back of his hand over his mouth quickly. “I was just too tired to even notice that I was being followed.” He looks down, twisting nervous fingers in his lap. “It’s hard, doing all this on your own, sometimes. I don’t know how you do it.” 

“I’m never on my own,” Agron says, “not really. When I first started, Duro and I worked together. Saved each others’ asses a few times. Still do, actually. And then Duro found someone he wanted to work with, and I ran with them for a while, before I decided that I’d be better on my own. There’s only so much time I can spend in hotel rooms with my brother and his boyfriend without wanting to murder them both. But even on my own, I’ve got people who have my back. I’ve got a contact in Paris who supplies me with information. He doesn’t come on jobs with me, but if I didn’t have him, I’d probably get shot three times a week. He actually... he told me where you were.” 

Nasir frowns. “Do I know him?” 

Agron laughs. “No, no. But I know him, and I know you, and when he figured out that you’d been pulled out of your flat at something like three in the morning he called me.” 

“And you came in, guns blazing, to rescue me,” Nasir says, and he’s smiling, and he smiles even wider when Agron winks at him. They smile at each other for a minute, before Nasir huffs with laughter and looks down. “You’ve got too big of a heart for this business.” 

He sounds like he doesn’t agree with being so open-hearted with his friends and family and then turning around and murdering people for a living, but he also sounds a little bit envious, and Agron reaches out with careful fingers and links his fingers with the hand that Nasir’s not using to hold his chopsticks. Nasir tightens his fingers around Agron’s, holding on like it’s a lifeline. 

“I always thought it was a waste,” Nasir says, staring stubbornly at the television. “I’ve lost too many people to open myself up to that kind of hurt again.” 

“It’s a risk,” Agron says, slowly. “And don’t think that I sleep soundly every day my little brother’s on a job that might get him killed. I hate knowing that I could lose him, or that he’d get in trouble, and I’d be a continent away, and not able to get to him in time.” He takes a deep breath and squeezes Nasir’s fingers again. “But I think it would be worse if I cut myself off from him completely. He’s family, and I love him, no matter how much shit he pulls. My life would be a lot quieter if it didn’t have him in it.” 

Nasir’s palm slides against his, a little sweaty, and shaking slightly. “And if I wasn’t in your life?” He asks, voice soft against the hum of noise from the television.

“If you weren’t in my life my life would probably be a whole lot quieter, too.” Agron says, smirking, and Nasir’s lips quirk gently. “I wouldn’t know what Shibuya was like at rush hour. Or that you can hide knives in your hair and kill a man with a coat hanger, if you really want to.” He shrugs. “You’re also the most attractive art thief I’ve ever met. And you’re stubborn as shit, and if you go down, you go down fighting and I respect that. My life would be pretty boring without you in it.” 

Nasir looks at him, finally, and his hand opens and closes nervously in Agron’s. “I’m really fucking bad at this,” he says, biting his lips.

“You know, I noticed that the first time we slept together and you stole all my shit,” Agron says, and Nasir cracks a smile. He leans in, very carefully, and kisses Agron. 

“I nearly climbed out of the window earlier,” Nasir says, when they pull away, still half in Agron’s lap. “But I thought I should at least say goodbye, and then when I came out of the room you were watching a terrible science fiction movie, and offered me pad thai.” 

Agron means to argue with him about Dune being more than a terrible science fiction movie, but what comes out of his mouth is: “Please don’t climb out of the window again.” 

Nasir looks away and sits back, so Agron moves forward, to pull him back into his lap. “If you’re going to run away again, at least tell me? You owe me that much. Don’t just disappear.” 

Nasir nods, and leans forwards to kiss Agron again. 

They fall asleep in Agron’s bed that night, and Agron wakes up in the middle of the night when Nasir curls fitfully into his side. Nasir wakes up before Agron does in the morning, and he smiles nervously while Agron runs a hand over his face and beams at him before pushing him back among the pillows, careful to avoid his injured shoulder. 

They shower together when they manage to get out of bed, and Agron makes them pancakes, despite the fact that it’s nearly lunchtime. Nasir gets jumpy in the afternoon, and they get dressed, Nasir in Duro’s joggers and one of Agron’s jumpers that is far too large for him. They take the Tube to the centre of London and buy overpriced cups of coffee at a stand along the Thames, and walk along the river until the sun sets. 

Agron tries to hold Nasir’s hand but Nasir goes stiff and awkward, so he tucks his hand in his pocket and curls it into a fist. Nasir sits right beside him when they take the Tube back to Agron’s flat, as if to apologize, and he kisses him when they get back inside the flat.

Agron falls asleep uneasily that night, with Nasir tucked against his side, and when he wakes up in the pale grey light of another rainy London morning, Nasir is gone. 

The worst part about it is the way he’s not even surprised.

He takes a long shower and nearly misses the note on the kitchen table when he turns the kettle on to make himself a cup of coffee. It’s written hastily in the margins of yesterday’s newspaper and says: 

_I told you I was bad at this. I need some time. Don’t wait for me – I’ll find you. Thanks for the rescue, the home, and the pad thai._

Nasir’s handwriting is spiky and disjointed, unpredictable, and Agron abandons the coffee in favour of the bottle of aged scotch he hides under the sink. 

+

“I’ll garrote him for you,” Duro offers over the phone from where he and Auctus are on a job in Spain. Agron just laughs and brushes him off. 

“It’s okay.” 

“It’s really not.” 

“He never promised me anything, Duro.” 

Duro swears loudly, colourfully, and at length into the phone, and Agron sighs and would laugh if everything didn’t feel a little bit sore from not enough sleep and a little too much scotch. He’s itching for a job, but he knows that Duro called Pietros and told him to keep Agron in London to keep him sane, until he gets over … whatever Nasir was. A one-night stand, a long-distance romance, a lot of misguided pining, and a rescue mission, respectively. 

He’s been spending a lot of time simply walking, mapping the streets in his neighbourhood, and taking the Tube until he gets tired of swaying with the motion of the train and gets out to walk some more. He likes walking on Hampstead Heath best, because the heath gets deserted in the early autumn chill, and he likes the view from the top of the hill, where you can look out over all of London. 

Nasir is waiting for him at the top of the heath one morning, exactly three weeks after he had disappeared from Agron’s flat. He’s sitting on the bench at the top of the heath that Agron favours, with two cups of coffee, still steaming in the cold air. He looks the way he did when Agron ran into him on a bridge in France. The cut on his head has healed, and he’s wearing a dark wool coat, and a cream coloured scarf, with that same battered pair of designer brogues. 

Agron stops walking, and just stares. It takes Nasir a moment to notice him, but when he does he jumps up, tamps out his cigarette in the dirt by the bench and closes his hands nervously on empty air. 

“I brought you coffee,” he says, after a minute of silence, and offers it tentatively. “I have to tell you something, and I thought you’d be more likely to stay and listen to me if I brought you coffee. You can leave, though, if you want, I’m not… I wouldn’t try to keep you here.” He coughs awkwardly and gestures with the coffee cup slightly manically. “I also thought that I’d let you punch me in the face, if you wanted to. I deserve it.” 

“My brother offered to garrote you,” Agron says, conversationally, and takes the coffee from Nasir’s hands. 

Nasir touches his neck absently. “I probably deserve that, too.” 

“It’s okay, though,” Agron says, shrugging, and it almost doesn’t hurt when he says it. “You never promised me anything. I was foolish to even hope.” 

“You’re not foolish,” Nasir says, sticking one hand in his pocket to fumble for his cigarettes. “You’re incredibly fucking stubborn, and you believed in me even though I did my best to not give you anything to believe in. That’s not foolishness,” he says, a strange smile playing on his mouth as he lights his cigarette. “That’s bravery.” 

Nasir exhales a pale stream of smoke, and looks at Agron’s fingers around his coffee cup, the old sweater he’s wearing, the stubble on his cheeks – anywhere but his eyes. 

“And I thought you were a crazy person at first, because I left you in Paris, but then you just kept showing up. And I never gave you any reason to keep coming back, and you still showed up, in a suit in goddamn Birmingham to help me, and you opened up your house and fed me, and it’s always been so complicated in this life, to be involved with other people, but it was so easy with you that I had to get out again.” 

His hands are shaking badly, now, and he ashes his cigarette so forcefully that the coal glows fiercely in the cold. “It’s like what we were talking about,” he whispers. “What’s the point of getting involved with people you could just lose in an instant, courtesy of a stray bullet, or a job gone south? And then, I couldn’t stop thinking about how if you never got involved with people, what was the point of sticking around? Being lonely is about as miserable as losing someone, so why not be happy while you can?” 

Agron sets his coffee down carefully on the ground, because he’s not sure what his heart is doing. It’s jumping around in his chest, trying to escape right through his ribs, and he sticks his hands in his pockets and clenches them into fists to stop them from shaking like Nasir’s are. 

“I was going to be dramatic,” Nasir says in a rush, “and fly to Italy and kiss you in front of the Trevi Fountain, but I got too impatient.”

“I’m a little bit confused about what’s happening here,” Agron says, carefully, and Nasir smiles bashfully at the ground. 

“About three weeks ago,” he begins slowly, “some men dragged me out of my apartment in the middle of the night and tied me to a chair. And then, two days later, you came bursting into the warehouse like a knight in shining fucking armour. And you opened up your home to me, and I realized that I was in love with you, and I panicked and ran off. And I was all ready to take a one-way flight to Spain and never see you again, but I couldn’t.” 

He kicks at the ground and steps closer, cigarette smouldering between two fingers. “I’m in love with you, and all I can think about is how I want to steal priceless works of art for you, and wake up next to you for the rest of my life.” 

Agron’s heart feels like it might explode, and he steps forward, knocking his coffee over his shoes, and the cigarette out of Nasir’s hand as he reaches for the smaller man. They both scramble to stamp out the cigarette, and then laugh straight into each other’s mouths when they finally manage to meet in the middle.

Agron kisses Nasir like he’s drowning, and Nasir kisses him back just as desperately, his fingers digging into Agron’s arms through his coat. 

When they pull away to catch their breaths, Agron leans down to rest his forehead against Nasir’s. The art thief smiles brilliantly at him, and stands on his toes to whisper into his ear: 

“Fuck the moon, I’ll steal the Mona Lisa for you.”


End file.
